A unique fluffy bird in the wild West Highlands of Scotland

The Scotch mist swept in from the sea and drifted gently down the hillsides until it covered the land with its drip, drip, dripping, and hid the world from view. So Algy decided to postpone his further exploration of the peat bog until a somewhat brighter day … He sat at the edge of a soggy hay field, and thought of one of his favourite poems, which he would like to dedicate especially to those of his friends who have been struggling with difficulties recently:

Cold may lie the day, And bare of grace; At night I slip away To the Singing Place.

A border of mist and doubt Before the gate, And the Dancing Stars grow still As hushed I wait. Then faint and far away I catch the beat In broken rhythm and rhyme Of joyous feet,— Lifting waves of sound That will rise and swell (If the prying eyes of thought Break not the spell), Rise and swell and retreat And fall and flee, As over the edge of sleep They beckon me. And I wait as the seaweed waits For the lifting tide;

To ask would be to awake,— To be denied. I cloud my eyes in the mist That veils the hem,— And then with a rush I am past,— I am Theirs, and of Them! And the pulsing chant swells up To touch the sky, And the song is joy, is life, And the song am I!

[Algy is quoting part of the poem The Singing Place by Lily A. Long, a young American poet, first published in Poetry magazine in 1912.]